Please, Remember me: Arc 1: Tailor's Son
by lostwolfe
Summary: Dear Nick, your life has been an unfortunate series of miseries that has left you unable to allow people inside. I hope these restored memories help you in some small way. [An OC Spirit Fox gives Nick the ability to change very specific parts of his past.]
1. Prologue Chapter 1: Ghost Of A Touch

**Please, Remember Me: Arc I: Tailor's Son**

 **A piece of fiction set in the Zootopia universe**

 **Greywolfe, 2016**

* * *

 **DISCLAIMER**

I do not own Zootopia or the characters found in Zootopia. Zootopia is the property of Disney, and is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

 **Prologue**

There's a lot of darkness in my past. A lot of things that – if I could, I would change. Certain situations where even just taking back a sarcastic remark might have made all the difference. Perhaps I could have re-arranged my plans. Included others in my thinking. Walked that extra mile. It doesn't matter. What matters is that there are various sins I'm not proud of. I don't talk about any of this to anyone.

I made a choice, long, long ago that I would not allow anyone to see anything other than what there appeared to be: a shifty, shady fox.

Which is why it made complete sense for me to be a con artist. If mammals don't trust you, then you're one step ahead. All you have to do is be a little smarter. Having done that rather successfully since I was twelve, it's easy now. Second nature almost.

You just have to remember the magic words: "Never let them see that they get to you."

… And then she came along.

I still don't talk much about my past, but… little inklings have slipped past the cracks. Little tremors that have turned to quakes of revelation on my part as I talk to her.

But that darkness…

Given her optimistic disposition, I try to never let it show.

* * *

 **Chapter I: Ghost of a Touch**

It is autumn in Zootopia and all around me, trees have turned orange and red as their leaves wither and die so that they may fall to the ground in a soft blanket of amber.

We don't always have slow shifts, but this particular Saturday is like that. A peaceful day where not much of anything is happening in the world. I am on shift and she is not. Which probably means that she's spending her afternoon talking to her mother and father, catching up on the news from The Bunny Burrows.

As for me? I'm on break. It half-crosses my mind to call her – to find out what she's up to, but much as I'd love to hear her voice over the phone and as much as I'd love to trade witticisms back and forth, I also half-think that she needs a little space and time of her own, besides. There's our next shift together for that.

So, I make my way across the carpet of gold, hearing the sound of leaves as they crunch under paw until _my_ bench comes into view. Well, that's how I've always thought of it when there's no one sitting on it and I'm alone on-shift.

Over the last three months, as the Night howler case has drifted into memory, I have shared this bench with her, have heard her soft laugh and her effusive stories about her family. Have shared lunches and case files. Have made more and better memories with her than I would have thought possible.

There's something in her that reminds me of who I was, once upon a time.

Before time, life and circumstance stripped those values away and replaced them with simpler, more cynical ideals. Did I need to survive? Yes. So I came up with ways to do it that would, very gently, buck the system, but never run too roughshod over it. Did I need friends? After a fashion. So I made some that I could always keep at arm's length.

In truth, I could have found proper work at a proper establishment and could have made do, but…

...remembering my Father.

Remembering what he went through and how the city crushed him.

Remembering how it took him in and spat him out the other side, a broken, defeated mammal who retreated back to being a first-rate fox.

That darkest gift that the city gave gently dissuaded me, and in the end, I grew up as a consummate con artist.

Those memories are stirred in my mind like stew in a cauldron. Ordinarily, I'm not quite so introspective as this, but today, something about her not being here or the leaves, like a carpet on the ground, indicating the passage of time, or the way I see others – so carefree and easy as they talk to one another… All of these things make those memories swirl and shift, tumble and roil… and then, there's a voice..

"Nicholas Piberius Wilde," it says. Softly, softly, like a wind through the trees.

And then again. Louder. "Nicholas Piberius Wilde." Closer now. I tip my ears this way and that, trying to discern where the voice is coming from, but to no avail. It. She? The voice sounds feminine. It is riding the waves of the wind. Sailing until it hits the shore of my bench.

"After all this time," she says, and yes. It's definitely a lady, "after all this time I have found you."

That confuses me.

"I have always been here," I tell her or at least I try to tell her. There's no real way to know where she is other than guesstimating that she's near _my_ bench. "And if I'm not here then I'm at the precinct. If there's some sort of cri-"

She cuts through my words, slices through them like butter. "There has been no crime, Nicholas Piberius Wilde" — and this – the repeated use of my full name – this worries and scares me. I even try to broach the subject, but she will have none of it.

"I am Nick. Just Nick."

"You are more than 'just Nick,'" she says, the ethereal gust of her voice moving this way and that, like she's looking me over.

"You are Nicholas Piberius Wilde. You found the Night howlers. You wanted to become the first predator Junior Ranger Scout. You wanted to start a business with your Father. You..."

I'm not sure why she trails off exactly here, but it seems like there's more she wants to say. Maybe she can't? Or maybe…

...that darkness gets ahold of me. She knows a little _too_ much about my history. Maybe it's a con. Maybe she's running some kind of scam. Whatever it is, I want none of it.

"I don't know who you are, and I'm not sure why you're reciting all these things, but I had better..."

She doesn't verbally cut me off this time. No. Instead, she just drops the act completely and materializes – that's the only real word for it – right beside me. Even when she does become visible, there's a translucency to her that makes it possible to see through her to the bench beneath.

The gawp on my face must look tremendously funny, because she chuckles. A throaty, low sound that seems to start in her belly before spilling from her vulpine lips. She is a fox. A beautiful, ethereal vixen with a dress made of glowing white light, a cane of solid birch and a kind of crown that keeps shifting and churning – changing like the shapes you might see in the clouds.

"I am The Keeper Of Memories," she explains.

I pick my jaw from the floor and the first thing from my lips is a quip, and belatedly once my brain catches up with my mouth, I realize – horrified – that the first thing I say to her must sound like an insult. Probably because it is, but that's my mouth. It never knows when to quit.

"Why aren't you an elephant?"

"Oh," she gazes at me, but doesn't look down to inspect herself. This is just an everyday event in an everyday lifetime of being some kind of celestial being, "I am not an elephant to _you_ ," she says simply. "I would most certainly be an elephant if I had been summoned by an elephant."

"Waitwaitwait," I say, holding up my paws. At long last, my customary confidence is re-asserting itself. That fogginess of being lost to memory all-but-gone. "Summoned? I didn't summon you. There's no chalk marks on the ground. No ritual candles..."

"That's...not really how it works," she says, a smile crossing her lips. I can almost see myself in that grin. I might have worn it as I slid the last piece of a police puzzle into place, or might have flickered with such a look at a mark before departing with their well-earned cash if it were a con. "How it works is: you get to thinking about your past, maybe because _she_ has moved you toward introspection, and then I show up."

"I've never heard of you before, though..." I counter, lifting my arm up onto the back of the bench, so I can laze. I've decided that I'm hallucinating this whole thing. I haven't had enough sleep and here I am on my scheduled lunch break and I'm dreaming a kind of fox-angel that knows my past. Any minute now, one of the kids that uses the park as their own playground is going to see me, walk past me, nudge me and return me to wakefulness. Yes. That's exactly what's going to happen.

"I'm very rare," she shrugs, making no effort at all to deny my claim.

"What makes you show up for me? As opposed to other mammals?" This is a legitimate question and she shrugs it off. Her answer is only somewhat committal Again, almost like there are things she can't tell me, or things she won't tell me. "I don't really know. You're just… Part of _The Plan_ some how."

Now I am pretty sure I'm hallucinating. _The Plan_? It sounds capital-letter-y.

"And this Plan? It advocates what, exactly?"

"That you – Nicholas Piberius Wilde"—that full name again—"need a little...fine tuning. A little rewiring."

"And if I don't take this opportunity? To be rewired, I mean?"

"Did you love your Father?"

This is so far out of left field that my immediate answer is completely unfiltered. Given time, I might have had a more succinct reaction, but my gut is truly punched, and she has me on invisible strings.

"I did," I declare. It is a solemn, simple declaration, because it is the truth. As with every story, of course, this truth is really a little more complicated than just that visceral reaction, but the visceral reaction seems to suit her well.

"And you miss him?"

I nod. I miss John Wilde so much that my heart aches every time I think of him. So I try not to do that too much.

"And you'd like to see him again?"

I shake my head. Now the hallucination has gone too far. I try not to think about him too much, but when I do, I go visit him. Well, sort of… I visit his headstone in the graveyard where he is buried. I put flowers there. I talk to him, and it always hurts. Somehow, the gulf of time should have erased the incalculable sadness, but it never has.

"That's... not possible," I say, somberly. "He has been _gone_ for almost two decades now." I hope the emphasis is clear.

"He is not gone," she says, quite simply. "He is here. He is inside you." One of her clawed fingers points at my heart. Pressing against the gold of my badge, and I suppose – in a technical fashion... That is true...

"And if he is there and you loved him, then you can see him again."

My ears flatten. I miss John. I miss my Father.

I think she can see the sadness in my eyes, because one of her paws reaches out and touches along my shoulder, and just like that, I'm no longer _there_. I'm no longer on my bench. Instead I'm _here_.


	2. Chapter 2: 108 Pack And Flock

**Chapter II: 108 Pack And Flock**

 _Here._

The sounds coming from the kitchen tell me immediately that it's Saturday morning. Furthermore, they tell me that my Mother is awake and that she's fixing breakfast. Breakfast smells wonderful as ever when it's her cooking. There are other sounds, though they're slightly more distant, blending and bleeding into the noise of meat frying on the stove. It takes me a second or so to place these other noises: they are the sounds of my Father. My Father who is humming to himself and walking over to me to check if I'm awake. I recognize the tune very dimly as a song that's been on the radio a few times before. It must have gotten lodged in his brain.

As he gets nearer, I almost consider faking sleep, just so that he'll let me lie in for a few more minutes. I don't really feel like waking up, because waking up means doing chores and homework, but something about the sound of his voice – something in the _cadence_ of his voice makes me decide otherwise and I open my eyes, head turning to where I believe he is.

His tail trails the ground, as his half-open eyes peer down my way. "Hey," he says – his slow drawl making the word sound longer than it really is. "It's good to see you're awake." His paws are stuffed into his pockets. He looks completely relaxed.

This particular pose: tail dragging, eyes half-lidded, paws in pockets – this is one of his favourites. I've seen him slouched just so against a wall as he shares a tall tale or two with a friend. But, more importantly, it's his "I've got a little secret" pose. Sitting up in bed, my ears prick forward as I watch him grab a chair. Carefully – fluidly – he turns the chair so that he can rest his arms along the backrest, those lazy eyes taking me in. "I think I maybe found a place," he says.

And I know exactly what he means. My eyes go wide at this bit of news. We're sharing a secret. A secret that Mom maybe suspects, but doesn't really know about.

"If you do your chores and you finish your homework, I can show you, but..."

I groan and flop back into bed, dramatically. That bargain. But he's always good to his word and in a second, the bargain is forgotten as I shoot up again, sitting bolt upright, curious.

"Where is it?"

He shakes his head and smiles, that infectious grin turning to laughter – a warm, gentle rumble that fills the room – before he answers:

"You think I'm a pushover and I'm just going to give you information like that at the drop of a hat?"

I nod. That's _exactly_ what I think.

"Naw," he says, shaking his head, "it doesn't work like that. Chores and homework. Deal?"

"Yessir!" I reply, my belly feeling a pleasant sort of warmth at sharing this secret with my Dad.

* * *

 _Here._

 _I know the house. I know the people. I know exactly which floorboards creak and which doors are easy to sneak out of at night. I know the neighbours and the streets. I know the secret pathways that will get me to school faster if I'm late. I even – though I shouldn't – know where my Father keeps his stash of cigars._

 _A part of me – a phantom part that's viewing this all as a kaleidoscope of memory – doesn't trust what's happening here. That part of me pushes against the gauzy fabric of time, leaving ghostly impressions._

 _I...know what day it is._

 _Exactly what day it is._

 _And adult me – the part that remembers this – has a bowling ball in my stomach. This is where it all begins. This is exactly the point where my father – for want of a better term – starts being pummeled and crushed by the city he loved so very much. The colourful, vibrant place that he wanted to offer himself to._

 _I want to warn him. Reach through the shrouded fog of decades and attempt to steer him on a different course. But it's just like a movie and he will never hear me. He will never take the advice I have to offer, because this is a memory._

 _It starts off happy and then…_

 _Well. Let's just say it doesn't have a good ending._

* * *

The day drags.

I wash dishes. I sweep floors. I do Arithmetic homework and study history for a test I have on Monday morning. I don't plead with my Mother to let me go, because my Father is here, too. Doing his fair share. We're not well off and many paws make light work.

That tune he was humming turns into a whistle as we hang wet clothes outside on the line, and all the while I try to goad him into telling me about the place that he's found, but my father's a firm believer in the long game. He is all about show and not tell. Which, I suppose, is why he's such a good tailor.

He listens to you, hears what you want him to hear, then understands and without too many words, he will take that understanding and turn it into a fine dress, or a beautiful suit. One that – with minor alterations – always seems to fit the occasion and the mammal it's for perfectly. Back when I was still learning from him, He explained it as something akin to observing the substance of the mammal you're listening to. Seeing through them and seeing exactly the things they're longing for, and that's the moment where you can line up material, find the perfect pattern and discern the combination of colours.

It all sounds like pseudo mysticism to me but there must be something to it, because often a customer that came in for a wedding comes in five years later asking for a first school outfit for a son or a daughter, or maybe they're just looking to renew their vows, or maybe they just enjoy well-made clothing.

The problem is that my Father has outgrown his little store out in Fox Hollow and it's time to find somewhere bigger to ply his trade and the only place that will really do is Zootopia, and this is where my Father's secret comes in. He hasn't told Mom, yet. But soon…

Lunch comes and goes – a ritual of togetherness for us – and almost right after, Mom tasks Dad with going to get the groceries. There are social rounds to be made, cubs and kits to be admired, gossip to catch up on. Mom's certainly earned her reprieve and Dad just smiles a lazy smile, his tail flitting to and fro as he puts his paw behind the back of my head, ushering me to my room so that I can go and get a coat.

It's time.

* * *

 _The day blurs by._

 _It feels like seconds between waking up and being on the train. Instants rushing by as my Father escorts me from the station. Memory serves me well: this is a trip that takes half an hour. As we sit opposite each other, Tundra Town goes by in a vague, white blur as, at long last, his day-long silence turns to animated laughter while he attempts to describe the location of the place he's found. He tries going into detail, telling me about the mammals and the sights and the sounds. But I can't help myself. There are so many questions. Eventually, he gets me to be still and I feel like I'm right there with him as he has the revelation about the building. This One True Place._

* * *

It is on the corner of Pack Street and Flock Street.

My Father, at this point, can no longer really contain his enthusiasm. Me? I'm a little skeptical. The building looks ancient. Run down, even. I can't exactly see what he sees in it. I tip my head from one side to the other, ears following suit. I walk up and down the street a little way to see if – maybe – he has somehow confused this building with some other building. But no. This is the only one with a red and white For Sale sign in the shop window.

It is also 108. Exactly like my Father described it.

Stairs, railing, facade and all.

My Father must see my skepticism, because his enthusiasm wanes a little. His eyes betraying his confusion. Surely I must see the greatness that he sees?

He is momentarily flummoxed, at a loss for what to do to get his idea across to me, but then that grin of his shows up again, and that pose is struck. He has me on a string and he knows it.

He steps forward, slow as you please, his fingers tugging out something white and small. A little tube? My head tips again, staring at him as he hides what he's doing from me for a moment. I stare up. I can make out the word "tailoring."

He's writing again, but lower down this time, his body all-but-obscuring the words. It takes a few seconds for him to shift away, revealing our surname scrawled across the glass. "Wilde." A pause. A plus sign. Another pause. He's absolutely drawing this out for all it's worth. Then, three simple letters. "Son."

He turns to me, his eyes no longer bewildered. Instead, they are full of fierce, simple pride, and I get it. I completely do. This place is a place for _us._

* * *

 _Here._

 _This building._

 _108 Pack and Flock._

 _Time slows down and I stare at it for what seems like hours. My body trembling like a leaf. I am wound tight – wound like a spring. My Father is looking at this building and he doesn't know what it means. Doesn't understand the significance of what he is seeing. But I do._

 _And I am powerless to stop it._

 _Powerless to prevent him from losing himself._

 _Here._


	3. Chapter 3: The Pitch

**Chapter III: The Pitch**

 _The ride home was an animated one. Both my Father and I were discussing what we could do with the store. How we could place important things like the front counter and the different sizes of mannequins we might have to buy for our various clientele. He was giddy and happy and his happiness was infectious. We had a place and the beginnings of a plan for the place._

 _It was perfect: it seemed to him that the second level of the building was part of the sale price and, if so, that meant that we would be able to live right above the store. No waking up and trudging to work and back. Not to mention taking a lunch break would be a far more simple affair._

 _It would imply other changes as well... For one thing, I'd have to move schools and that meant losing all the friends I'd made across the last four years, but we haggled it out. If the store made money, I could always go and visit them over weekends. The trip to Fox Hollow takes half an hour and I could sleep over if it came to it._

 _As we got closer to the Fox Hollow station, my Father started slowing me down, trying to get me to be less giddy. At this point, Mother didn't know any of his plans and – most certainly – wasn't aware that this trip would include an unscheduled stop at an undisclosed location so that we could think about buying it for our own._

 _He never mentioned it, of course – I was barely nine years old at the time – but there was another, heavier matter: money._

 _My parents never outright battled, but we never had a great deal of money. We had to scrimp and save for finer things, and even then they were many steps removed from being fine things. If I needed a rucksack for school, I would get one, but it would never be something flashy or trendy like the other kits would have. It would always be a dull, military green. A sturdily constructed, but uninteresting box that sat on my back and allowed me to carry books, pens and food. The downside? I never thought I looked quite cool enough. The upside? That sturdy box lasted me a lifetime, and when you're a kit, a lifetime is about five years._

 _Then we got off the station..._

* * *

Mother races toward us on the platform, her eyes betraying a certain amount of worry. Her arms wrap around Father and then around me in turn. Crushing us both with her love. I'm not sure if she spots it, but my tail is going a mile a minute. I am happy to be home, naturally, and that is certainly some part of it, but I can't wait to tell her the news. In my own giddy kind of way, I nearly spill the beans too, but Father pushes a heavy packet of groceries into my arms, eyebrows raised as he tries to get that important message across. There's a – possibly comical – half-second where my tail stops wagging and my own eyes go enormous, remembering what we talked about on the train and my brain finally catches up with my mouth so that, instead of talking about 108 Pack and Flock, I begin regaling her with stories of Zootopia. In that moment, everything is perfect: my Mother is laughing at some outlandish scene I have painted in her mind and my Father has his paw on my shoulder, steering me as I skip down the road, looking from her to him as I keep talking.

Late afternoon turns to dusk and dusk turns to evening, which means bedtime for me, since it's early Fall. When my Father announces that it's time to get ready for sleep, I rebel. All I want to do is kick my soccer ball out in the back yard. Quietly, he goes down to one knee so he can look me straight in the eye. Which typically means he wants my undivided attention.

"I want to tell Mom about the shop we found," he says, his voice low as he turns his head to look at her standing in the kitchen door frame, paws on her hips, exasperated at her son. For a moment, my ears droop. I want to keep playing! My body betrays me, though. I'm trying to go for that sad kit look. The one that almost always gets you what you want when you're younger, but all my muzzle wants to do is part in an impressive yawn that makes my tongue curl. Father just laughs. It isn't an unkind laugh, mind you, just a laugh that says that turning on the charm isn't going to work.

"Will you play ball with me, tomorrow?" I ask him, because it's been almost a week since we've done anything like it. He nods his head, solemnly and smiles... That gentle, laid back grin of his.

"Yeah... Plus, I'm going to need your help."

This makes me smile in return and I carefully hand him my ball, racing up to Mother to hug her tightly, my tail thrashing once more. For a second or so, she still looks stern, her eyes gazing down my way, but then her head turns upward, toward where my Father is still half-kneeling and something in him melts her.

I turn around in her arms, looking my Father over, too, but I see something quite different again. I am seeing a fantastic fox who can do no wrong.

As I lay upstairs in bed, I can't help but hear the kitchen door open as Mother and Father settle down together to watch the sunset. I can almost see them in my mind's eye: how she takes out her sewing kit to repair one of my damaged pairs of pants and how he sprawls onto his own chair, head tipped back a fraction as he settles a cigar between his lips. A reward well-earned for a day well-spent.

She doesn't argue with his little ritual. After all, he makes her beautiful dresses and there's always a little money leftover to buy me a toy. Our home is not an unhappy one.

I love listening to them talk. How his rumbled, basso voice contrasts with her gentle, but higher register. How they just know what the other is thinking, sometimes even finishing the others sentence. There's something almost magical to me in how they complete each other.

"I was thinking..."

"A dangerous past-time, that," she counters. I can hear the smile in her voice as she says it.

"Well, this was a little more serious than, 'I wonder what kind of dress I could make for my wonderful wife _this_ time?'" An exhale as smoke rises to the sky. Up here, I can't see the motion, but I can smell the result: a soft, easy blend of rose that tickles the nostrils and stirs the senses.

"But that did cross your mind, I imagine?" She gets done with the pants and moves to something else. Perhaps an errant sock that simply won't stay together, or maybe a jacket with a fraying elbow.

"Oh yes," he replies. "That most certainly did. I was thinking something... Lavender, a light purple. Something that would compliment that beautiful necklace of yours."

She's an old hand at this, so she hears that there's something more to the conversation.

"John?"

She doesn't normally call him by his first name, preferring, instead, to use words like Sweet Husband, or little pet names they've come to favour over the last twenty-something years. This means business.

He doesn't immediately reply, blowing one more puff of smoke into the air, stalling for a few more seconds before he launches in on his pitch. This first pitch.

"I have to go into Zootopia every now and then to buy stock. You know how it is, sometimes the store runs out of a very particular thread, or there's a beautiful new fabric that I want to try..."

Mother responds with a throaty "mhmm." I imagine her paying some attention to her darning and some to my Father. Her eyes following needle and thread as they patch up our clothing.

"Well, on one of my trips, I spotted a building..."

This is the moment in the discussion where the tone of his voice changes, becomes a little more excited. He wants to share this moment with her in all it's beautiful splendour, but he's tiptoeing around what it will mean.

"It's an old place and a little quiet, but it would be perfect for us. For the store."

He exhales the last three words in a hurry and I only just catch them. By this point, I've dragged myself out of bed and across the room, to the window that overlooks our back yard, pushing it open just a little more, praying that I don't betray myself: This window, of all the windows in the house has a very particular squeak if you open it wrong. My prayers are answered and I hop up onto my toy chest, kneeling there, head tipped to the right, huge ears pitched downward so I can catch every sigh. Every sound. Every word that they exchange.

Mother doesn't answer immediately, either. For a moment, I think that The News has sailed right past her, like, she's heard it, but she's not processing it or accepting it. My father must feel the same way, because I hear him almost lurch into an explanation before she stops him. Much, much later, when I'm older and wiser, I will think back to this conversation and realize that her voice is pregnant with a range of emotions that her words only barely convey.

But at nine, all I hear is a surprising amount of restrained enthusiasm. Mother loved her boys. She loved both of us so much that she would go to the ends of the Known World for us, right, even, into the jaws of the Unknown, if necessary, to pull us back from the brink of disaster. So here she is, endorsing his plan, giving him wings so he can fly.

Sure. She's still using his first name and that means that there is a note of caution in her voice, but he understands her so well. He knows exactly what every nuance of every word means.

" _It'll be ours..."_ she says, simply.

* * *

 _Convincing my Mother was one thing._

 _Convincing the banks was entirely different struggle…_

 _That Sunday, my Father and I built a little version of the store as we envisioned it. We used all the spare cardboard and paper and tape that we had in the house. Mother helped out, adding little features that we never would have thought of, like the fake, stained glass windows and a rack to hang your coats as you entered the store._

 _It was a wonderful Sunday capped off with a bit of soccer in the back yard with my Father, the ball rolling between us as the sun set. I wasn't playing quite as well as I could have, because my mind was still on the store itself. We hadn't settled on a name other than Wilde And Son, something that I'd carefully stenciled onto one of the walls. It didn't seem like a great name to me, but my Father had suggested that it was pragmatic._

 _I had to ask him what the word meant and learned that it was shorthand for boring._

 _So that was on my mind. The other thing that was keeping me occupied was the fact that he wanted me to go with him. It_ WAS _Wilde and Son. So, having the son there made sense, but it was the first real Adult thing I was ever going to do with my Father and I was understandably nervous at the prospect._

 _As we were winding down, Mother came out from the kitchen, carrying a tray of mixed drinks. She had a sparkle in her eye. She knew exactly what we needed to do:_

" _Call it Wilde and Son's Suit-topia," she suggested. My father stared at her for a second and then barked a happy laugh, a laugh that I'd only ever seldom heard coming from him at all, but it meant one thing: the pun was glorious and it would stick._

 _So, Suit-topia it was. Far more fun to say, but still pragmatic._

 _Pitching to the banks turned out to be a real problem. Oh, the act of doing our little song and dance was easy. We'd go in, stand in the queue, take our place, side by side, carefully place our model down on the table and recite our lines. All done to perfection with nary a wasted breath and all for naught._

 _At every bank, it was the same story: they'd stare at us and then at the model and then listen, incredulous, at our little, prepared routine. Sometimes, it almost looked like they were going to accept the pitch, but it always ended with a clerk slamming a red REJECTED! Stamp down on our carefully filled out loan application._

 _The first time it happened, I was caught off-guard. My ears drooped and my eyes turned up toward my Father, baffled. How could they deny us this dream?_

 _As the afternoon wore on and we visited a second and then a third bank, I began to see the world the way all predators invariably learned to see the world: we were scary. Giving us access to money and resources meant that we might do something prey did not expect. So prey, like the antlered deer at the first bank, routinely made a point of never letting predators gain anything like an upper hand and that, in turn, meant rejecting my Father's carefully crafted proposal._

 _It was a bitter, hard lesson to learn._

* * *

I am sitting on my bed, staring at the loan applications. All of them laid out on my bed in a little semi-circle. The conversation my Father and I had on the way home is still ringing in my ears, filtering through me and changing me. I have lived the greater part of my life in Fox Hollow, only really knowing other predators. Many of the predators, but not all of them of course - are reasonable individuals. Given a particular situation and particular mammals, they will make logical choices. The kind of choices that anyone else might make in that situation.

Today, though… today has dulled some of that unfailing positive sentiment I have towards others.

Father had dropped the little scale model we'd made. He'd mumbled something about "we'll try again tomorrow", but I could tell that his heart wasn't in it. He had walked down the stairs, footfalls heavier than usual until he'd gotten out of the house. Instead of going to the back, to sit and be with Mother, he'd gone out the front. I'd heard his keys in the door and heard that same door close. He didn't seem angry – there was no slamming of the door, but I ran to the window facing out toward the street and watched, arms crossed on the sill, ears perked up as I tried to listen through the closed window pane.

I didn't immediately notice it when Mother put her paws on my shoulders, watching the little, colourful blob that was my Father walking down the road, tail dragging along the dirt street, head down. She didn't say anything as he pushed a very particular door open and vanished inside of the building. My eyes travel upward to the little icon stenciled on top of the door. It's a jug of something golden being poured into a small, crystal glass.

Father hasn't done this in a very long time. He went out drinking.

* * *

 _My Father is out drinking…_

 _After the fourth and fifth and sixth rejection, he went out drinking again. After that, two slow days went by before he tried again. The seventh and eighth rejection made him turn around and come back home, tail dragging behind him. He started drinking earlier that day and earlier again the next day._

 _I'd never seen my Father drunk before._

 _At first, he was good about it. He'd get drunk and stay at the bar, waiting until he was sober and then he'd come home. He'd be bleary, but he was still recognizably my Father, but the further along this went, and the more rejections he piled up, the worse it became._

 _He stopped being recognizably my Father when he stole Mother's necklace so that he could pay his bar tab. After that, it was all a downward spiral. First, he lost control of the store. Soon after, he lost control of his marriage and finally, one day, he lost control of his life, having drunk so much that he could no longer get up._

 _I had to go visit him. It was their twenty fifth wedding anniversary and someone had to be there to ensure that he was sober. I didn't like the idea of Mother seeing him like this._

 _I found him in the little room he'd taken for himself, squalor reaching outward for miles. There were clothes on the floor and dishes in the sink and, curled up on his unmade bed, my Father, clutching a half-empty bottle in one paw._

 _I sat down, heavily, on the edge of the bed, amongst the stink and the mess, staring at his body. Unbelieving. It took what felt like hours before I could pluck up the courage to call Mother and tell her. I didn't want to wait around until she found him, so I slunk out into the night, finding my way onto the train that lead back home, staring out the window as Districts flew by._

 _It was six years later and still that little building had not been sold._

 _That initial afternoon of rejection had soured me on Zootopia, but this last action of betrayal cemented my feelings._

 _I hated this city._

* * *

" _But you can fix it," the Lady says, her voice intruding on the memory. This is exactly where the memory leads and exactly how it happens. "You can help him in his time of suffering. You just need to remember..."_

* * *

 _This is how the memory went…_

I am sitting, sunk into Father's favourite chair, engrossed in a little history. There are a few books like this one – picture books that chronicle the rise of this version of John Wilde's Tailoring. My hope is that looking at our pitch from a fresh perspective, I might be able to help him.

 _...but this is not. I strain at the edge of the memory, trying to reach through to my younger self. Trying to point him in exactly the right direction. My older fingers blurring at the pages as I try to twist and turn them. I only just manage before the memory snaps shut around me, pushing me away…_

It takes me a little while to work it out. To figure out what to change so that we can present it to the bank with some hope of success. When I stumble upon the answer, it isn't because I have a fantastic revelation. Rather, it is because the old photographs _show_ me the answer.

"Who is this?" I ask mom, as I stare at the black and white square, my eyes glued to the dapper looking deer. Not the deer from the bank, but someone very like him. Very prim and proper.

"That? That's Old Man Murphy. That's what they called him, anyway. He died three years ago." I replace the little square into the book, but my brain is on fire, now

 _Right. Old Man Murphy. Gone. More pages…_

"And this?" Another square. A lady this time. There's something ethereal and beautiful about the clear, green eyes staring back at me. She is a beautiful Zebra and my Father used her stripes to make a simple, exquisite dress.

"That is–" but before mom finishes telling me who it is, she stops. I think she has exactly the same revelation.

Hands shaking, she reaches for the book and, together, we start going through it, sorting the pictures into two piles. People who she knows are living and who they can reach and people who are gone.

When Father comes back, later, looking guilty for drinking the last of our money away, Mother dashes over to him and hugs him, holding him tight. I realize – then and there – that I never want to lose either of them, and so, taking him by the hand, I show him. Show him the plan.

 _The memory is shifting, collapsing, changing. Turning in on itself as it becomes… something else._

Tuesday arrives, but we don't take the train right out. Instead, we start calling mammals. All the mammals in the "alive and well" pile. In the end, we only manage to snag three who are interested in helping us, but that's not a bad number. Three is a good start.

We arrange to meet at midday on the station, with each of them wearing their John Wilde creation. Which makes the trip to the city a surprisingly flamboyant affair. My Father looks happy again. Looks exactly like his own self. That self-assured pose is on display as he ferries each of us out, forming a kind of line. There are three banks we want to get to today.

We decide to shoot for the one closest to the building. This way, everyone gets to see the building, and there's the added plus of it being convenient if the loan actually is approved.

Quietly, our little posse struts into the bank, Father at the helm. He gets us into one of the queues that moves, slow as molasses, to an elephant who is large as life. To my Father's credit, he doesn't even blink, instead, he pushes the loan application forward, sets the scale model of Suit-topia down on the counter and we proceed to do our pitch:

Clearing his throat, he began with his well-rehearsed first line: "What if there was one suit store for all mammals?" Ordinarily, he would just do this by himself until the very end, where both of us would chime in with the words "Suit-topia welcomes you!"

This time, though, we did it a little differently. At each pause, we would usher our clients forward, so that the elephant could see each design my Father had made, but, more importantly, so that he could see that these were all prey. That they had all, willingly, sought out John Wilde, because – though he was a fox, he came very highly recommended.

As we say the last line, in unison, my eyes are drawn down to the loan application and the two stamps – huge, elephant-sized stamps – that surround it. My heart crawls up into my mouth and I get that sick, terrible feeling in my stomach that I had after the first rejection, but the elephant doesn't reach for either of these, instead, he tips his head and looks, first to the Zebra, then to the large cape buffalo, and finally, to the small squirrel, a dapper, older fellow who clambers right up and onto his desk, showing off the fine suit he is dressed in.

For a moment, the elephant just stares, but then he smiles, trunk lifting in a surprise fit of mirth. "Loan granted," he says, as that self-same trunk wraps around the vast, green "Accepted" stamp, the letters seeming friendly and warm.

And just like that, the store is ours.


	4. Chapter 4: Opening Day

**Chapter IV: Opening Day**

Father is elated. More so than I've seen him in a very long time, especially considering the battering he'd received on that first day.

Together, we leave the bank and find our way to a nearby restaurant. It is a beautiful place, all wood tables and cotton tablecloths. This opulence extends to the menu, cutlery and food. I watch my Father, carefully, as he takes note of how the lettering is laid out on the menu, his eyes scanning the placement of knives and forks, again and again, to perfection and I know, even then, that he is learning, storing away ideas for the future. Father loves fine things. That's at least some of the reason he's a tailor, so this restaurant absolutely fascinates him even if he'd never want to run a place like this.

I don't think very much of it at the time, but the prices on the menu are frightening. Our little entourage orders up a bottle of wine, while the waiter hovers around, taking careful notes as we each spell out our desires. My wants are simple: a burger, fries and a chocolate milkshake. The sleek otter nods, picks up my menu and vanishes off into the kitchen and within minutes, drinks are served.

I am not entirely sure how Father will handle the bottle of wine at the table, but he deals with it in the simplest way possible: turning to the waiter, he asks for another chocolate milkshake. As he smiles down my way, I can't help but return his grin, knowing, somewhere deep down, that a specific sort of temptation has been visited upon him and that he's had the courage to stand up to it. No more drinking.

Father's raucous ebullience extends to a toast to Wilde and Son, and when he bumps his glass against mine, it finally ignites something in me, something that I thought had been buried by those first few rejections we'd experienced. We have won something precious for our family.

There are five of us, but Father orders six meals. The extra is for Mother, who is waiting at home, waiting to hear how our latest attempt has gone and this is how we pass that first, happy afternoon. With Father sharing his wealth.

The very first thing we do for the store is create the logo. This ends up being a joint venture all the way, with Mother cementing some of the design, while Father hammers out the name in some of that lettering he saw in the restaurant. It ends up being my job to pick the colours, and I aim to get as much of my favoured green into the design as possible. By the time I'm done, Mother can only laugh, staring in mirth at the concoction of sea-green I have spread across the page.

Her arms squeeze around me as she surveys my handiwork, my paws caked with the paint I have been using to colour the logo as best as I can.

"So much green, Nick? Are you sure?"

All I can do is nod. I don't want to get her beautiful dress or her own paws dirty, so I try not to wriggle too much, but in the end, she lets me go, leaning back against the couch. I turn around for just long enough, head cocked, that I can see the both of them behind me, smiling.

"We'll have to tone down the green a little bit, but I like it," Father declares and that, right there, is all the validation I need. Turning back toward the picture with the logo, I carefully draw three mammals with my still-grimy paw: Mother, Father and me.

* * *

The very next day, we take the train down to Zootopia. We're here so that we can meet with a reputable sign-maker who comes highly recommended by Silas Finch, but we're also here so that we can get a feel for the space inside the building. There's a very particular way to lay out a store like this and my Father wants to see what he's working with.

I happen to be tagging along, because it will be my job to make sure that the sign-maker sticks to the plan. Well, most of the plan, anyway. That drawing of my parents off to the side will not be part of the final logo.

Silas turns out to be an affable and simple brown bear. He is huge, but gentle and while his paws are as big as a dustbin lid, he knows just how to employ them so that he doesn't hurt anyone around him. My offering of our page with the logo on it is accepted gracefully and spread out across his work desk so that he can estimate the price of the work.

I don't lose interest... necessarily, but there's something disorienting about being in a place where everything is quite so big. Silas is kind to a fault and humors me as I walk around his vast store, climbing up onto his various work surfaces so that I can stare at pictures of the many murals and logos he has painted in his time.

Negotiations are finalized and we all pile into his truck so that he can drive down to our own little place and see the actual building. It is sort of amusing to watch him stand just there, on the corner of the street, one foot tapping as his fingers scratch beneath his chin, eyes half-open while he appraises and estimates. In the end, he doesn't say much, as he drags on a paint-flecked set of coveralls, huge paws gathering up supplies so that he can start in on the work.

Carefully negotiating both bear and stairs, we slip the keys into the lock, my father standing in that pose of his. His left arm extends into the darkness, rather dramatically as he bows a formal sort of bow. "I welcome you, Nicholas Piberius Wilde to Wilde and Son, finest Tailors in all of Zootopia."

The only real response is to giggle and bounce into the empty space, my tail wagging, furiously behind me. I feel like I am walking on air as I start exploring at the back of the shop. It is, much to my surprise, rather roomy and I find, to my delight, that there's a light switch. True: I have to jump more than once to hit it, but once I have done so, I am rewarded with all the lights slowly flickering to life. Father frowns at this for a moment. He's never been a fan of incandescent bulbs and I can see why: They flush out all the colour and leave everything looking like it's a hospital corridor. They will have to go.

Almost immediately, I am struck by how barren the place looks. Our old store back in Fox Hollow might go empty for a couple of hours at a time, but there's always life around the area, even if those mammals are window shopping and, at very least, Father and I will be at the back counter, listening to music and working on some project for a customer, but here?

The place is empty except for Father and I.

It seems a little surreal at first, and not a good omen, which causes my tail to droop along the ground and my ears to fall back.

"What's the matter?" Father asks, as he spies my condition. He is slowly walking from one end of the room to the other, counting steps.

"It's so empty," I reply, arms outstretched to show that I mean our domain.

"Oh," he says with a grin, "it'll be fine. We'll make wonderful, affordable clothing and everyone will want to buy from us. You'll see."

"Everyone?" I ask, tipping my head to one side.

"Well," he shrugs, having reached the wall he was heading toward, head dipping for a moment as he whispers a number to himself so that he doesn't forget it, "almost everyone. Mammals with good taste."

For a moment, I can't quite believe his words, but then I spin around where I am, allowing my eyes to drink in the wood, odd wall paper design and lighted ceiling, I let myself imagine his prophecy coming true. I like the sound of it, and my tail flies back up again as I race toward the stairs. This must be the way up to the living quarters.

When I get there, I find that the door is locked, but Father's about to rectify that problem as he glides up the stairs, taking them two at a time, all that soccer practice in the backyard clearly paying off.

Peering down at the key ring for the place, he slides an ornate, golden monstrosity into the door and turns. There's a satisfying click and, maybe a little too eagerly, I press the door open, slamming it, slightly, against the wall.

The dust that covered everything in a thin sheet downstairs is far thicker here. Whoever used this building last didn't use the second story at all. I slow my step as I cross the threshold, because my nose starts to itch. I can't really help it: within a second or so of setting foot on the wooden floor, I sneeze, but I note, with some pride, that Father isn't very far behind, sneezing once or twice, himself.

Each door we open brings a new revelation: while none of the rooms is particularly big, it's clear that there will be enough space for us to live here.

"I think," Father says, one paw stuffed into a pocket as the other points toward one of the larger rooms, "that one would be perfect for you." I turn my head to him for a moment, just to be sure. His response is clear, head bobbing as he smiles. That grin absolutely says "yes, I'm sure," and so, with a little trepidation in my step, I make my way to the room he has suggested.

Standing in the door frame, I stuff my own paws into my pockets, trying to mirror his lazy, relaxed look as I stare at this spot that might be mine. I try to picture where all my things might go, from my toy box to my desk and, turning backward, I reach up for Father's paw, walking him into this new space.

"Can I put my bed here, please?" I ask, indicating the very centre of the room.

"Yes," he says, simply.

"And my desk here?"

"Of course," he says, smiling and then, to forestall me suggesting each and every item of furniture, he lifts me up, up and into his arms. "This is your new room. We arranged your old room for you before you were born, but this time, you get to pick where everything goes."

I can't stop my tail, even if I tried. This is ours.

* * *

A week comes and goes.

In that week, Father and I begin moving from the old premises. We don't own a car, so Father rents a pair of vans from Lupus Movers so that we can shuffle a lot of our inventory to 108 Pack and Flock.

As each day passes, the innards of the store become ever more fleshed out. What starts off as a muddle of fabric and half-made dresses slowly turns into a collection of mannequins up front, racks of already-made clothing to suit any taste and a collection of changing rooms in the back.

There are a number of other small businesses around us, like the restaurant we ate at after securing the loan, Father goes to each of these in turn, offering to tailor make clothes for each specific business mammal so that some cross-promotion can get going and this is how we end up having a couple of tables and a waiter from that wonderful cafe stationed right in front of Wilde and Son.

As the days pass, so the sign above the shop becomes ever more filled in, too. Silas starts with a very simple brush stroke, which he allows to dry and then, the following day, he adds more and more texture until it looks far better than the drawing we did for him. In the end, we promise him a suit and a picture, which is something he appreciates from every job he does.

It isn't all plain sailing, of course. Some of the businesses around us are run by prey and they aren't entirely happy seeing an establishment run by a predator startup so close to their places of trade.

This is how we end up with egg on our front door before we've even started trading, but Father doesn't let any of this bother him. On the contrary, he calls up Zootopia's Police Department. They're not exactly happy to be solving a small case like this, but in the end, mostly through pressure exerted on them by the bank, because the bank wants this venture to succeed, they turn up a shady-seeming hare who had been paid a pretty penny by one of the local elephants.

Father didn't bat an eyelid, instead, he walked to the elephant, a towering mass of ears and gut by the name of Ermine and told him, quite simply that he was prepared to do business with the mammal, but only on condition that there be no bad blood between them.

Ermine backed away, not wishing to consort with a fox and Father shrugged. Later, in the store, I catch him staring at the elephant's eatery. He's smiling a simple smile and I barely catch the words "he'll come around" under his breath.

* * *

Opening Day starts off quiet.

We open the store at a respectable 10AM, Father sitting out in the back, behind the counter, while I sit out front at one of the restaurant tables. The waiter, a tall stag who wanted a quiet day, is smoking a cigar as Father busies himself with a couple of small, final touches. A record player at the back of the shop springs to life and the dulcet tones of a rat I know well fills the space and beyond.

Back at Fox Hollow, often as the day was winding down, Father and I would have a little routine where he'd play a Holly Mason record. Sometimes, it'd be Salt Whiskey. Sometimes, it'd be something a little bit more obscure, but always, it would make me feel warm on the inside as we cleaned the store and locked up for the evening, so I'm pleasantly surprised when I hear that warm, bass voice spill out and claim everything around it. The stag's ears tip a little to one side as he allows the music to spill into his brain and pretty soon, he's tapping his foot to the slow rhythm as various mammals pass us by.

I think that it's the music that draws our first few customers. It's so at odds with all the other, brighter sounds streaming from the buildings around us that it invites curiosity.

It starts with a wolf and, I assume, his wife. He spots a suit and pauses and, veering off course from where they were both headed, he turns in to start browsing the store. Minutes after that, a young looking mouse shows up, interested in a gown for her graduation. From there, it just snowballs.

By mid-day, Mother comes walking down the stairs to a store that's filled with laughter and that soft, smoky music that Father loves so much. Her head turns left and right, watching people try on various pieces of clothing, a smile crossing her lips.

His dream has become a reality and as a result, she is happy and I am, too.


	5. Chapter 5: The Wedding

**Chapter 5: The Wedding**

 _Days went by._

 _Slow, quiet days of selling wonderful clothing to mammals of all stripes. Each day would end in a blissful, peaceful time of reflection: Father would play Holly Mason, I would consider the knowledge I'd earned and we'd pack away the store._

 _I always remember that Autumn as the first true Autumn it ever worked out for us and we didn't have to scrounge._

 _We were never rich, not by any stretch, but we never had to worry again._

 _Those days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months and the months turned to years..._

* * *

The store is empty except for Mother and Father. Father is fretting with a dress, trying to get it just right and Mother is sort of hanging off of him, smiling as her arms trail around his neck, placing butterfly kisses between his eyes and on his nose.

A younger version of me might have scoffed at this, at how in love they are with one another, but at age fifteen, I've thought about that evening he went out drinking a lot and I know, now that we are lucky to have John as our patriarch.

It could have gone any number of ways, but thanks to his resolve and our plan, it has never come to that. Instead, my parents have grown closer over the years, and I have grown to love their love.

When he's done fretting, he turns toward me and smiles. It's that lazy, self-assured grin that has become his stock-in-trade. One arm is around Mother and the other is half-dangling at his side, fingers pressed into his black tuxedo pocket. They are dressed to the nines.

I am really just an accessory to this occasion, someone to tell them that they look beautiful. Well, dapper in Father's case. His half-lidded eyes tell me that he knows this, anyway, but it can't hurt to hear.

"How do we look?" This from Mother, who looks absolutely nervous.

"Wonderful," I tell her. "Like the King and Queen of Zootopia."

"Now," Father says, as he disengages his arm from around Mother's waist, "you're laying it on a bit thick, but thank you for the compliment."

He steps backward a couple of paces just to watch his radiant wife. He is, understandably, pleased with the results, but then again, she loves wearing the dresses he makes. They are his special gifts.

* * *

 _Much like with the store, Father takes me into his confidence about this plan early. It is, you see, their twenty fifth anniversary and he wants to give her something she will always remember._

 _Back when they were newlyweds, he didn't have the money to give her a beautiful wedding, but he tried. He tried his level best, because that was exactly the kind of mammal John was._

 _So, he cooked up this plan and, one night..._

* * *

The store is closed, though the lights are still on and the record player is still going. Father pads on over to it and lifts the needle, storing it on the side of the apparatus, the tone arm lying idle as the platter comes to a standstill.

I look up from what I'm doing, which is correctly placing fabrics back into colour sequence at the right hand side of the shop. My tail comes to a stop along with the music, my eyes tracking Father as he moves to the back of the store where we keep all the records. I can't see him, but I know his posture by heart at this point: head dipped slightly down as his claws pass by many different record sleeves. Finally, he lifts one from the stack in triumph and sets it down on the checkout desk. Looking at which one it is, I know exactly what's going on and I know exactly what to do.

I speed my filing up a little so that the colours are all neatly lined up. Different fabrics in different holders, one on top of the other, and the rainbow spilling out to the right. Having completed this chore, I start pushing racks of ready-made clothing out of the way, emptying the middle of the store so that the lights can shine straight down on the wooden floorboards that have been polished until they gleam.

Father made a point of changing the bulbs the moment we took control of the shop, which means that he can dial them up or turn them down as low as he'd like. He opts for an in-between setting: just enough so we can still see, but not so much that the glare of the floor is troublesome.

Quietly, stepping over to him, I help him into his tuxedo and give him the little package I've been holding for the last three weeks. He flips it open, checks that everything is present and correct and smiles. My tail wags in response, because that smile goes all the way to his eyes. We're going to do something special tonight.

Up the stairs he goes, his gait an easy, effortless one, taking two steps at a time. When he gets to our "front door," he knocks and waits, patiently.

Mother is, understandably, baffled, but she answers the door and sees her husband standing there in all his splendour. I'm not sure she's guessed what's happening, but he takes her by the paw and, stepping back down the stairs, slowly, he leads her into the middle of the store.

Once he's tugged her into the centre of the room, I know exactly what to do as he goes down to one knee. Carefully placing the vinyl onto the platter, I set the needle down at song four and settle in behind the counter to watch, tail wagging lazily behind me, paws scrunched under my chin as I lean on the surface for support and head bobbing in time to the music.

"John?" She asks, as her body bends downward to look at him, one of her paws in his, but then her whole posture changes, her spine going erect and her eyes turning my way, to stare at me. It's only taken two or three beats of the music for her to _know_ what this is.

Her paw grips his a little tighter. I'm not sure he even needs to say anything, but he does: "I've been waiting a long, long time for this moment, but-"

He doesn't finish. She plants her lips against his and for a long time, that's all they do. When they pull away from each other, he ferrets around in one of his pockets, tugging out the black, sleek box. The package I'd been holding for him. Her eyes go wide as he pops the little thing open. She's never had a proper ring before. We've always been too poor.

Carefully, he takes the simple gold band and slips it on her finger as she holds her fingers out. "I know we're already married, but I wanted to make it more… official," he says with a shrug, his body rising up and back to all-twos. He takes her paw and kisses it before asking the question that comes, feather-light and almost inaudible from his lips: "Would you marry me again, my love?"

She practically jumps into his arms, hugging him tight.

"Yes, yes," she says, her smile reaching her eyes, too, "a thousand times yes."

That night, my only job is to change the music and to watch as my parents dance until the morning light.

* * *

 _The next few months go by in a rush as I help them plan the wedding-of-sorts._

 _There are cakes to be made and invitations to be sent and the thousand other tiny chores that go into an event of this magnitude. We always try and take some time off, both from the store and from the wedding to be together, but it's not always possible. One evening, a dinner that's supposed to be an outing turns into an impromptu planning session, a sea of napkins spread out before us as we try and figure out seating arrangements._

 _My father isn't good with planning. That's why he doesn't do the books for the store. His prowess is figuring out what people want based on what they tell him, so a lot of his energies are focused toward how the wedding is going to look. Mother, on the other hand, is a born and bred pragmatist. While she loves those beautiful dresses – the little gifts Father makes for her – she is far better at bookkeeping, numbers and logistics. Between them, I almost feel like I'm contributing nothing, but Father gives me a very important task: I will be the Master of Ceremonies and the weaver of music. It will be my job to make sure the wedding is entertaining._

 _This isn't difficult really: Father likes Rat Pack music. This means, of course, Holly Mason and sometimes his Three Blind Mice, but it also spins outward to Duke Arthur Ellington, The Drowned Rats and other pensive, brooding artists of that era. These will cap off the evening. Mother, on the other paw likes mushy love songs. These are, of course, at odds with her pragmatism, but they will make a wonderful start to the evening. In-between, there's the more current stuff that I like and I will sometimes commandeer the record player when things are a little slow in the store just to shake things up a bit._

 _Those months of planning are hard on all of us. Between the shop, school and working out music to play, I am exhausted, but the day finally arrives and it is absolutely worth every hour of time I have spent with my parents on this labour of love._

* * *

The day of my parents silver anniversary is a beautiful, clear one. No clouds and just the right amount of breeze.

For all the calmness of the day, my parents are scurrying around like mice. I have tried to take the reigns so that they can relax, but between Father fretting over flower arrangements and Mother worrying over who is going to sit where, well, I get nothing much done. Which is why I take the little otter aside, the Junior Florist who is mostly responsible for the little touches and I explain to him that under no circumstances should he allow my Father, a man nearly double his age, to interfere. Mister Otterton just bobs his concerned head, presses his glasses up against his snout and then smiles, a radiant, easy sort of smile. "It'll all be fine, Mr. Wilde."

Together, with the other staff assisting, I finally get my parents bundled into the car that will take them down to the Church.

It's an ancient, roomy structure, and it is packed to the rafters. Business associates, friends and interested parties have all come to witness Mother and Father renew their vows. The back pews have a handful of press mammals, all curious to see this fox who has made his way in the world of Zootopia. I'm not crazy about the idea that they are here, but Father thinks it'll be good, both for business and for the city. So when their eyes and cameras follow me, I try to do my best to be gracious and to answer the handful of questions they have for me before I attempt slipping away.

Slipping away proves to be a little tricky, but I manage it heading on over to where my Mother and Father are sequestered. On my way, Grandpa Wilde detaches himself from his wife to saunter over to me. I can almost see his resemblance to my Father in his eyes and his gait, but his voice is lower. More gravelly. He uses that quality to make sure only I can hear the question he asks: "Are they OK?"

I nod and turn my gaze his way for a moment to grin. I think he gets the message, because he settles back into his pew, leaning over to his wife to tell her what he's gleaned.

I step into the little room where my Father's fussing with his tuxedo.

"Ready?" I ask, patting down his shoulders as I stare up into his eyes. He's tongue-tied. A first, but then he reaches for me, pulling me into a very rare embrace. "Yeah. I believe I am. Why don't you go ask Mom how she's doing? Perhaps we can get this show on the road." I hold him for a moment longer before easing myself from his arms, bobbing my head in answer.

Down and across little, hidden hall I go, finding my way to Mother's little chamber. She is radiant. A beautiful angel. She is much more relaxed than Father is. I think some of this is simply down to having done it before because she hands me a piece of paper. Carefully, I unfold it just enough to see the beginnings of her vows. I don't _really_ want to have them spoiled, so I pocket the paper.

"Father wants to know if you're ready?" I ask.

She nods and I take her paw, leading her to the door, allowing her to peek at the assembled throng.

She almost-laughs before she squeezes my paw, gently placing her paw-pads against my muzzle – turning it so that I can look into her eyes.

"Thank you, sweet boy," she says, simply. She tries gathering me up like Father did, but her dress makes it impossible, and we both end up laughing as I kiss her paw, because it's the best I can do, given the circumstances.

"I'm ready," she says, pulling away from me and standing to attention.

I lean out the door and signal to the orchestra and with that, the wedding begins.

* * *

 _To most, it may have felt like time was speeding up, but instead it's more like there are so many things happening at once that it becomes a blur. A splendid, wonderful blur. They announce their vows. They join paws. They swap rings and then they kiss. I find that, throughout it all, I cannot tear my eyes away from them._

 _They're walking out the door into the light._

 _The light that catches the ring my Father gave to my mother._

 _The light that is a little too bright when I look at her beautiful dress._

 _The light in my Father's eyes._

 _That light refracts and reflects off of everything I see as my vision becomes blurry and warm and tears trickle down my cheeks, making streaks along my amber fur._

 _And time speeds up._

 _Up._

 _Up._

 _And I am_ There _._


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

 _The blur of memories starts off slow, my parents at the wedding, my parents holding hands, my parents kissing and climbing into a car, driving off for their second honeymoon._

 _Days and nights begin to flow together in one great stretch. I have a picture in my paw. It's my parents at the wedding. I'm going to school. I'm learning from Father. I'm slowly winding up to the point where I am doing that alchemical process of understanding exactly what people want when they request clothing. I am stepping out the front door of the store, locking it up. Father, who married late, is sixty at this juncture. Sixty and enjoying those quiet nights of dancing with Mother at the top of the store, playing those rat pack records._

 _As they grow old together, they grow close together. Gentle and close and warm. I am always a part of their lives and I am always humbled by their love._

 _And yet… something nibbles at my thoughts. Something I'm supposed to remember._

 _No. Not something. Some_ one.

 _As the blur begins turning in on itself, I realize that it is like a wave. A wave in an ocean of my collected memories. Desperately, I turn back, trying to push against the onrushing tide, trying to find_ her.

" _Judy!" I yell, fighting my way to the precious, precious memories of the last few weeks. They're all there, all present and correct, but the rising tide of my new life is fast approaching._

 _I try to hang onto them._

 _Try to hang onto her._

 _But in the end, I am..._

… _There._

* * *

The scent of flowers tickles my nose as sunlight streams against my fur. I realize that my eyes have been closed for the very longest time, and when I snap them open, the resulting harsh glare makes me squint and press my sunglasses down to protect myself from staring, even indirectly, into the brightness.

I am sitting in the park on a bench, sprawled out. My eyes turn to the right and I find that I am not alone. There is a lady here, a perfectly white, nearly transparent fox. She is smiling at me.

"You should reach into your pocket, Nicholas Piberius Wilde."

I look down. There are still vestigial memories of the time before and I expect to see police blue, but instead, the clothes are finer. Paw-made. They almost look like the kind of thing my Father might have worn years ago. There is, indeed, a pocket in the jacket and I dig around inside of it, my fingers trembling. I have a shrewd idea of what it is I'm going to find.

Even as I'm reaching into my pocket, those memories of before are being washed away, being poured over like water by the other life. This life I have been leading. This life in which I am a tailor. By the time the picture is in my trembling paw, this picture I know so well from the memories in my head, the other images, the ones of Father passing away, of never getting the store, of stealing away and living on the streets of Zootopia, they're gone, but most importantly, she's gone.

All that remains is this ethereal vixen. "I'm sorry," she says, earnestly, "but sometimes, you have to trade one thing away to get another."

With that, she vanishes, but not before leaving a whispered sentence in her wake: "We will meet again. In spring."

For a long, long moment, I stare at the space where the vixen was, but then I shake my head. I am seeing things. Staring at the watch on my arm, I grunt, slip from the bench and start making my way toward the exit of the park. As I go, I pass by several lazing mammals, all engrossed in books or food or pleasant conversation. All except for one rabbit dressed in blue. She is, rather purposefully, heading toward the Zootopia Police Department. I only spot her for a moment as we cross paths, but something lurches in my memory as my eyes pass over her. I have a moment of deja vu and I'm almost positive I've met her before, but then a billboard catches my eye and I get it: she seems so familiar because she just solved the Night Howler case that was plaguing the city. My forward motion almost stops. Some part of me wants to turn around and say something to her and I almost do, but then the great bell begins to toll the hour and I press myself into motion once more.

Lunch time is over. I need to get back to the store. It's not like those suits are going to sell themselves.

 **THE END.**

* * *

 **Author's Notes:  
**

first of all:

i'd like to thank my wonderful pre-readers for helping this story along. you guys are fantastic and i couldn't do this without you.

along those same lines, i'd like to think a superb editor who worked with me for getting this to you in a shape that is readable.

and now for some notes:

back when i was writing this story, a couple of things were tipping points in terms of inspiration.

the very first thing that helped me figure this story out in some way was this picture, here. when i saw it, i began to think about the idea of "them never meeting."

[this is a deviantart page - you will have to navigate there and copy/paste this string to that site]

/art/Tipped-past-Nick-and-Judy-603782197

the second thing that helped this story along from a characterization perspective was a story by an amazing author known as dalek. some of you might know his work "dangerous."

in that piece of fiction, he posits that nick's dad liked very old jazz records. he went so far as to create a fake band with a couple of albums that i LOVE the idea of. i asked, quite politely, if i could use holly mason here and he agreed.

this for me, now, is headcanon in a way. nick's dad liked this stuff and nick himself liked it, too.

very last thing and then i'll be gone until the next story: thank you SO much for reading this, i appreciate it a great deal.


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